


A Hand To Hold (Letters To Fred)

by EdgeOfSanity



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Drama, Emotional Baggage, Eventual Happy Ending, F/M, Gen, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Not Epilogue Compliant
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-10
Updated: 2016-04-10
Packaged: 2018-06-01 09:32:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,525
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6512815
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EdgeOfSanity/pseuds/EdgeOfSanity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>'He never realized a starry sky could put his mind at such ease, regardless of how all of his lasting questions directed at said sky went unrequited as expected.'</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Hand To Hold (Letters To Fred)

**Author's Note:**

> Lyrics are from Lana Del Rey's 'Religion'.

****

_**Everything is fine now** _

_**Let sleeping dogs lay** _

 

Out of all his siblings including Ginny, Percy, Ron, Bill, and Charlie, he knew he would miss Fred the most. Not just because they’re twins, nothing changed in that aspect, he still considered them as such despite Fred’s death and always will, but because they shared a bond that could never be broken or forgotten even by death.

However, what he did in his spare time he supposed some would deem strange, but for the most part he couldn’t have cared less. Angelina knew, and he knows she would never judge him harshly for doing something as perhaps childish as this, she might offer to send them herself as a laugh sure, but she never crossed that line between brothers. Not even when their relationship was still new, she understood. She especially empathized on those onerous evenings when the wind blew the shutters just a little too hard, the thunder rumbling loud enough to mimmick explosions far off into the distance. The long, fitful nights when all promises of sleep rewarded him with terror filled screams of the dying and wounded, rapid flashes of dark curses stick cogently in his mind as he awakens in a cold sweat, chest heaving and vision blurred, reaching out into the darkness for the one person who had accompanied him during a majority of his life, only to finally comprehend that the said person’s life has been snatched away unjustly in the blink of an eye and instead he settles for a chilled glass of water, if nothing stronger isn’t needed, and on occasion a trip outside. He never realized a starry sky could put his mind at such ease, regardless of how all of his lasting questions directed at said sky went unrequited as expected.

_And I wasn’t there. We should have stuck together, just like always._

_Why?_

_Most of all, why do I continue to regret every moment that I am still alive, while you are not?_

You see, George Weasley wrote letters to his dearly departed twin brother. Sometimes he wrote them in the wee hours before the sunlight piereced the shadows of haunted memories long past, before the house came alive with the sounds of everyday background noise that George could no longer accept or get used to, but rather bring himself to be content with, and before the tall tell rumblings of hunger or the annoyance of a perched throat provided even a minute of distraction. He wrote them long and short, but he liked writing the long letters the most. They allowed him to express all the things he felt he should have said, or done, and after he would never have to read them again. He thought it best to get his feelings and thoughts out in one go, no fuss. Then he could move on and somehow endure his life a morsel longer each day.  

At the moment however, as he sat the breakfast table sliding a clean sheet of parchment onto the spot where his plate should be, he caught his beloved wife watching him reproachfully from his peripheral vision.

“Something wrong, love?”

She sat her teacup aside and turned her gaze out the nearby window. Her other hand placed gently on her expanding belly.

“They’re going to need you, you know?” Angelina stated worriedly, twisting a strand of her hair into a short braid.

“Of course I do.” George responds hasitantly before getting up and going out to take the mail from their owl. He showed Angelina the card from Ginny for his nephew’s birthday, which they both share a smile at, and silently scolds himself for not seeing the Potter’s since James was born, knowing it will only come back to the one person he doesn’t want to discuss.

Fred.

_**All our minds made up now** _

Angelina sighs, knowing it is useless to push but hoping this time it makes a difference, that something sinks in and is not only passed through to be jotted down on parchment later. She always knew he wrote about her as well as the rest, how could he not? Threaputic or otherwise, it was incredibly difficult for him not to want to share a big moment in his life with his brother, by any means possible.

She’s biting her lip now, unsure of where this conversation is going. The last time, shortly after they were married, it went so far south he didn’t come home for three days. Much to her surprise, though she expected it from Molly, Arthur chided him for that stunt thoroughly. To this day she had never seen her father-in-law that disappointed and angry.

She has learned not to open such scarred wounds with little patience, but she wasn’t ready to give up, nor raise a family on her own.

“We should visit, you think?”

“Do you think you’ll ever stop?”

They both asked in unison, though George was first to direct his attention to the captivating details of the floor tile.

“I’m going for a walk.” She watched as he straightened and marched briskly for the door. She recovered from her startled state, lips set into a tight line.

“No, you can not keep –“

“I can’t stop.” Fred mumbled. One hand gripping the doorknob as if it would fall off, the other was fidgeting with the hemline of his freshly ironed dress shirt.

“What?”

“I said, I can’t stop,” He was facing her now, his shaking hand slipping from the doorknob, but his eyes told her he was miles away. “What if I never do? I mean, what’s our child going to think? When he’s old enough to talk and finds his loony of a father writing letters to his dead brother?”

Angelina stood; she couldn’t stand it when he wallowed in self-pity. It was almost parallel to watching a tornado form, he would not stop until he drank himself into a stupor or it ended in argument with slammed doors and a silent dinner. She was not going to put up with this neither today, or tommorow if it could be helped, the baby didn’t need this right now.

“You are not crazy!” She all but yelled, and it was obviously enough to gain his attention. George admired, and sometimes reviled, that she isn’t afraid to get in his face of she thought the circumstances called for it. 

“George, this is something we’ll both have to get through. I lost him too.”

“I know, and I’m sorry if… I’ve been focusing on me, I should be more attentive to you, especially -”

“He was your twin.” She interrupted, for once not willing to let this repetitive argument fall flat. “He was your twin and you loved him just as much as I did, undeniably more.”

Angelina hugged him. She didn’t see any other alternative, and wasn’t about to tell him that it isn’t normal to feel something after this long. George tensed, which in her book was entitrely better than flinching as most people she came across seemed incapable of holding back after the War ended – George rarely did, he was fearless. He was her fearless warrior and right now he needed her more than he could ever form into words. George held her until the kettle reminded them of their present responsibility to have a meal bordering on normal as possible.

They couldn’t continue on like this.

 

_**No one's out of time, no** _

****

_Dear, Fred_

_The sex of the baby is yet undetermined. We wanted to be surprised, and you know what? I think I will be happy either way, I know you would. But know that if it’s a girl, we’re going for Bethany, though I’m partial to Roxanne, a boy, Frederick. Or perhaps that’ll be a nice middle name? Haha. Angie has voiced that she wants a part of her family name included also, so we have some planning ahead of us!_

_Since I’ve been writing these letters, I’ve never felt more disconnected from everything, I thought it would help to write about what happened, it did for a while, but now I merely feel…odd. As if some transition into fatherhood is kicking in (ME, a father! Never thought we’d hear those words together quite yet, did we Fred?) and the pride of being a parent (let us not forget free gifts eh?) is overwhelming at times. It’s at these times, usually in the middle of the night, when I look to Angie and think, this is my OWN family. They will actually want ME here helping to take care of them. I can’t afford to lose someone more precious to me than life itself by holding onto the ghosts of my past, and I would be lying if I said you weren’t smack-bang in the center of it. You always were and likely will be, only in the sense of a fond memory to look back on when things become too complicated or the summer breeze succeeds in making everything overly bright and clear, but it’s high time I stop writing these, Fred._

_For my own piece of mind, and Angie’s sanity, I cannot keep this going. Besides, you were always much too slow in replying, ta. Just a little humor there, cos what’s life without it? It’s a chore, Fred, that’s what. It can honestly be a right horror show._

_Well, I think someone will finally need to depend on me now. It feels good._

_Guess we managed to accomplish something other than the perfect prank in life. Goodbye, Fred. I’ll never stop missing you._

_Sincerely, Tentacula_

******

_**Chips fall wherever they may** _

 

George Weasley stood warily on the empty beach behind Bill Weasley’s cottage. They had been here for a week now, simply enjoying a nice little holiday during late June, and George had certainly enjoyed the time spent bonding with Bill, wether it was going for walks or contently looking at the open sky with a sketchbook in hand. They both became quite good at drawing, though Bill obviously had more time to practise and was better at sketching people, whereas George figured his drawings could do rather well placed on a decent wall…in a primary school. Bill had joshed him for hours about it, though insisted he keep practising due to it being such a relaxing hobby for most. 

Fleur had smiled at his work, calling each one endearing if not a little sad. Angelina smirked at this, stating that her husbend was in fact a liar for telling her he practiced regulerly and that his work could possibly scare children into going to bed. He loved her bluntness more than anything, where Fleur was a bit more lenient and defined, probably due to her stay at Beauxbaton than anything, Angelina could be firece and strong-willed, exactly what he needed when the world felt like it was falling apart around him. Yet miraculously, the two women seemed to get on well enough, Fleur even painted Angelina once that bared a striking similarity - the effort Fleur put into the watercolor clearly showed her impressive dedication to art.

He wondered if she told Fleur anything, as he told Bill. There is no doubt in him that they probably discussed something along the lines of it, but Angelina isn’t the type to just natter on about their life unreservedly.

Bill wasn’t surprised at all, he said he expected George to do something like that; his feelings were still raw, weren’t they?

George thought Bill couldn’t begin to understand, but showed him how grateful he was by catching a fish big enough to feed five people, he isn’t sure how the Muggles handle such things as this, but the Weasley’s always gave credit where it was deserved. Percy was doing well as Head of the Department of Magical Transportation with a family of his own – hopefully none of his children owned a rat. Ron was busy going through his divorce, this time it seemed him and Hermione would separate for certain, while Charlie was traveling around the world, showing that Dragons were to be preserved and respected and made a name for himself by doing so. George couldn’t blame them, they had moved on as any other. The shop appeared to be in full business again, amazingly with Ron’s help, as customers no longer feared for their safety to walk the streets, George was never more satisfied as this couldn’t have come at a better time.

George walks to the edge of the beach, where the ocean and sand connects. He closes his eyes, feeling the cork twist beneath his fingers and the cool mist of water lap at his bare feet, wiggling his toes absently against thousands of scattered seashells. 

**_Leave it all behind, let the ocean wash it away_ **

He threw the bottle as far as he could; far enough that he failed to hear even the slightest sound of a ripple in the calm waters.

*****

Glad to be in his own bed again, George lays awake that night. Listening to the patter of drizzling rain and imagining how different things might have been if he were ‘Chosen’ instead, but then, it wouldn’t be about solely him, would it? Despite Fred being older by a few minutes, there was still a contributing factor of being born on the same day. He turns over and decides it doesn’t matter anymore than if all the people who died had lived. The War was interchangeable in his mind.

George closed his eyes in an attempt to get some kind of peace resembling rest, only he didn’t count on dreaming about the one reason he was still forcing sleep to take away in the first place.

 

_**Everything is bright now** _

_**No more cloudy days, even when** _

 

They were in a white room. He only knew there was another person in the room because in dreams, you sometimes didn’t see them, your mind precived them as there and sent you the realization. But what he couldn’t fanthom was the white room that gave a sense of inclusive sterility; there are no doors, no chairs, no people milling about as they occasionally do in dreams. If anything George felt hyper-aware of everything around him, or everything that wasn’t. It can be hard to tell what your real sensations are in dreams. 

 

**_The storms come, in the eye we'll stay_ **

****

**_No need to survive now_ **

 

Perhaps everyone who died passes through a white room. It was certainly clean enough, he thought, though immensely uninviting and the atmosphere was thick; George reckoned he couldn’t stay here for too long. Too long and something would get him, it would be all over, that much he could be sure of.

_‘Why do you miss me still, George?’_

Drifted a voice, a voice that was nearly identical to his, and could only belong to one person that was no longer in his world. His reality.

_‘I…well, don't you understand why? Don't you miss me too?’_

_‘Sure, I don't feel a great sense of needing to talk with you anymore though. I never left you know, not really.’_

George turned, turned towards the haunted voice that still hadn’t removed itself from the long ago conversations in his mind.

He could feel wetness on his cheeks and somehow knew he was crying in his sleep, he hoped he wouldn’t wake Angelina.

_‘Oh, wipe those will you? You always did become rather snotty.’_

George chuckled, letting the tears dry knowing to wipe them would prove useless if they remained when he awoke, an amazing feat within itself considering his deceased brother stood in front of him, not looking a day older than when he died.

_‘Why…why are you doing this, Fred?’_

Fred seemed to shrug, and George felt as if he were looking through the bottom of a wine glass. Fred’s image wasn’t as clear as he had first appeared to be; it shifted and flickered mainly when he talked. 

_‘Why does anyone do anything? You suppose I’m doing this, eh?’_

_‘How is that an answer!?’_  

George was getting progressivly frusterated. Whenever he tried to touch Fred, he was just out of reach in a way that can only happen in dreams, and it didn’t help that Fred started switching almost frequently between standing in front of him and somewhere else entirely.

_‘I hate you.' I hate you for leaving us and I hate you for tormenting me, now, like this.'_

Fred scoffed; apparently amused and mock offended in a way that was characteristic of him. George felt torn between hitting him repeatedly and hugging him to death. Which is pathetically ironic.

_‘Well, figuratively it’s possible. You hate me for coming into YOUR dream? Ha! I can’t control what your dodgy mind conjures up, can I?’_

_‘Shut up, you bloody wanker, you always needed to play ringleader.’_

This time they both laughed, though Fred’s was more obnoxious out of the two. George’s came out as a rush of relived air. 

The dream suddenly shifted to a scenary of the Burrow, and George was afraid he had lost sight of Fred when he saw him standing by a shallow lake, arms outstretched and apparently holding an old fishing rod made of wood. Which is odd since the Burrow doesn’t have a lake big enough to fish in.

 

**All we do is play, all I hear is**

**Music like Lay Lady Lay**

 

He caught up to Fred, who appeared less insubstantial, and noticed the hook on the end of Fred’s rod was moving. Upon closer inspection he could see both their intials etched in the base of the rod.

_‘Oi! Get a look at this will you? I told you I could do it without magic! Think I might take a liking to fishing.’_

George smiled; he had forgetten about their first fishing trip. They had to leave their camp in the woods early because the Wizard Cup was starting the next morning and neither managed to catch a single fish. Witnessing their favorite Qudditch player in action made them quickly forget their disappointment. 

_‘Perk up, cheerful. Remember that time we put Ton-Tongue Toffee in one of McGonagall’s desk drawers in fourth year, attaching a card that said it was from Professor Snape?’_

George nodded and picked up a stone, seeing just how deep the lake went when strangely, it didn't appear to have the slightest effect on the still body of water.

_‘And we thought she’d yell and give us the worse detention of our lives when he told her the truth._

_‘Only she slipped a few Stink Pellets under our desks the next morning, Merlin knows how she got those -’_

_‘ - Everyone thought we were mad to try out a prank in class. McGonagall might’ve been the fifth Marauder for all we knew.’_

George finished his brother’s sentence as if nothing ever happened. He took note of the clouds turning dark, although he felt no real fear, just a notion that something was on the horizon. Something inevitable. He watched as Fred begins to pack up his fishing gear, the last rays of sun making the hook glisten.

_‘I have to go now, George. Surely the rest of our siblings will put up with your maudlin ways.’_

_‘Teach me thou ways of these, oh great Gred,’_ George paused, deciding his next question may very well be his last – so why not make it a simple one. 

_‘Where are you off to, then?’_

_‘A place not yet ready for you,’_ Fred grinned, amused by some inside joke against his brother. 

_‘Nah, I was never one for being the cryptic sort. You know exactly where I’m off.’_

George did. The hardest part was accepting all of this as nothing more than a severely lucid dream.

_‘Tell my niece and nephew they’re welcome to anything in the shop for half a Galleon, will you Forge?’_

_‘Of course. Fred, I -’_

He could hear himself answer, though his voice had taken on an echo and he wondered briefly which niece and nephew Fred referred to. A cloud passed over them, causing the sun to filter through once more, and when George looked again, his brother was gone. The last thing he remembered seeing was a flash of lightening and yellow sparks raining down from the sky in the distance before Angelina shook him awake. Apparently, the baby was fixed on greeting the world early.

 

_**For you, there's only love** _

********

George felt for the chain around his neck, the chain that held Fred’s hand on the Weasely clock and the one thing he isn’t willing to part with. But who knows, he thought, as he unclasped the necklace and placed in a cloth inside his pocket, knowing he should be sleeping while he can – although hospital chairs are infamously the most uncomfortable pieces of furniture on the planet it seemed, maybe it could be a new family heirloom. An heirloom to call their own. 

Needless to say, George was rather glad, and if he were honest fairly dismayed, of his next surprise…

 

Twins.

 

**When all my friends say I should take some space**

**Well I can't envision, that for a minute**

******

 

**Author's Note:**

> I seriously felt compelled to write something based around this, and it’s a great exsuse to write about the twins – which I’ve never done. Hard to believe considering I’m a big Potterhead.
> 
> Just in case anyone is wondering why they didn’t know sooner, I’ve heard that babies will sometimes hide behind each other inside the womb. I guess it isn’t too sad, I’ve written worse so it’s about time I have a happy ending – I also thought they might like to fish since it’s a Muggle thing to do and they wanted to see who could catch the biggest fish. The song is a love song, but I thought certain lyrics were fitting for a few scenes. Thanks for reading!


End file.
